


Sickness

by snapeslittleblackbuttons



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-08-20 15:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8253442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snapeslittleblackbuttons/pseuds/snapeslittleblackbuttons
Summary: Draco suddenly loses the one person that has kept him sane since the end of the war. When the woman who he rejected years before tries to win his heart again and pull him out of his grief, Draco drags her down into his world of obsession and darkness. Warning: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. VERY DARK.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Major Character Death. Very Dark.  
> Beta love to PhoenixPixie

Draco Malfoy crossed his legs and picked an imaginary shard of lint off the wool of his grey trousers. He ran his fingers down the crisp crease of fabric on the top of his thigh, pinching it into place. This small distraction—one he taught himself years ago—was something he invented to help keep boredom at bay. Afternoon Tea in the parlor at Malfoy Manor was so dull it almost made him wish he wasn’t a member of Pure-blood society. Almost.

It had been exactly three days, six hours, and nineteen minutes since he had seen his wife. Her return this evening couldn’t come soon enough.

Draco’s mother sat across the room, her own legs crossed delicately. Surrounded by his family’s ancient possessions—those that had survived the brief reign of Voldemort at Malfoy Manor, that is—she looked completely in her element. Draco smiled at her in admiration. His mother exuded such ease, such _grace_ , even after the horrors that had transpired within these walls.

But the horrors had ended years ago now. Three years, to be exact.

Being allowed to return to the Manor had been one of the gifts Draco’s wife had arranged long before she had become Mrs. Draco Malfoy. _They paid their price already,_ she had argued to the Wizengamot _, you have no right to their home._ _Keeping it from them is unjust_ , she had said.

So, of all people, _Hermione Granger_ had been the sole reason the Malfoy family had occupied the Manor again.

And it was this exacting sense of justice that first made Draco take notice of the woman who would later become his wife.

Before Draco and his mother had been allowed to return, however, everything in the Manor had been carefully examined for any traces of dark magic. Draco suspected that proceeds from the majority of the items that had _not passed_ the Ministry’s tests lined the pockets of a certain group of Aurors whose connections would put Mundungus Fletcher to shame.

Neither Draco nor his mother had ever mentioned the loss, however.

Draco glanced around the room. The pristine Persian clean of damning stains, the bright chandelier now hanging in the foyer just outside the doorway, and the new tea service--no longer baring the Malfoy crest, of course--would never take the place of what had been taken from them. To Draco, they were no better than frauds.

But at least they had been allowed home.

Silent house elves drifted in and out of the sitting room, refilling their tea cups and replacing dirty plates with unused ones. The graceful Malfoy matriarch had never allowed elf magic to automatically refill cups or vanish dishes. Unlike Draco’s wife, his mother much preferred a subservient elf hovering in a corner and anticipating her smallest need.

_His wife…_

Draco uncrossed and recrossed his legs, fighting back the sigh that threatened. How long until Hermione returned this evening? He resisted an urge to cast a _Tempus_. It would not do to show lack of interest in the conversation at hand; his mother would only interpret that as insolence. And insolence was never tolerated at Malfoy Manor, even after the war.

Draco indulged in a memory while a part of his mind continued to participate in the conversation. Dual attention was yet another skill he had honed over years, a necessity in Pure-blood society should one not want to go mad during something supposedly as innocuous as Afternoon Tea.

His mind wandered to the night before his wife left.

_"How long will you stay this time?”_

_"Three days, maybe four. That’s all.”_

_"You know what I think of it.”_

_“I do. I can’t explain it, but I have to go. I…just want to see them, even if…if they don’t know me.”_

_“Hermione…”_

_“I know. Please, Draco. Give me this.”_

And he had, as he always had, because he could deny her nothing.

“ _Draco_ ,” his mother said, calling him out of his memory. Her barely detectable emphasis had been as loud as a formal rebuke. “You must promise to bring Hermione for dinner next week. I miss seeing her. We do enjoy such delightful conversations.”

“Certainly, Mother,” Draco responded, inclining his head towards her as she smiled back at him placidly.

It was a carefully orchestrated game they played, he knew. Narcissa would invite her son and daughter-in-law to the Manor and they would accept. During dinner, the witches would smile politely at each other over the rim of their wine glasses while Draco looked on without comment.

His mother was always careful to host their dinners on the patio, far from where his wife’s arm had been mutilated by Aunt Bella’s knife—even though the old room had been wrapped in new paint and furnishings. And Hermione, for her part, never spoke of anything more weighty than the latest engagement of an eligible wizard as rumored by _Witch Weekly_.

For that, and many other things, he was thankful. After two and a half years of marriage, he knew the witches more than tolerated each other—whether they admitted it or not. Draco believed the two strongest, loveliest women he knew might actually have grown fond of one another.

Should they ever become friends, all would be right in his world.

“It would be our pleasure to come next week,” Draco continued, inclining his head in her direction again and reaching to refill his tea, noting the wide eyed, horrified stare of the house elf standing in the corner. He smirked at it. “I—“

He gasped as a sharp, excruciating pain sliced through his right hand. It felt as if something had severed. Something had broken.

Of course, something had. His bond. Merlin, his _life_.

He watched, confused, as his hand cramped in agony and the teapot rattled against his cup. He released it with a shrill cry as the pain began to coil up his arm, threatening to ruin more of him. The delicate porcelain shattered. A breath later, he found himself crumpled on the floor next to it, as destroyed as it was.

“Draco!” His mother flew to his side and dropped to her knees. “ _Draco!_ ”

Through the misery in his hand, he registered his mother’s cry and the near instantaneous CRACK of Apparition. Long grey fingers grasped his collar. _What is Hermione’s house elf doing at the Manor?_ Just as the pain in his hand began to subside, he felt himself being twisted away.

* * *

Draco glanced around to discover that he was laying on the cold tile in a hallway… _St. Mungo’s?_  

Turning to the elf, he croaked, “What—“  

Staring at him with the beginnings of tears in its eyes, the elf CRACKED away.

“Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco looked up to find a lime green clad Healer stepping into the hall from a room several feet away. His features were twisted in surprise. Something in the Healer’s voice told Draco that something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

The Healer reached behind him and pulled the room’s door shut.

“Yes?” Draco said, trying to shake the aftereffects of the side-along and the increasing dread.

He clambered to his feet, cradling his hand.

“Did you just arrive?” the wizard asked, almost as if he were stalling for time or, perhaps, searching for the right words to say.

“Yes. My wife’s house elf brought me here.”

“I suspect the house elf wanted you here as soon as possible. Sometimes that happens in these cases.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Mrs. Malfoy Portkeyed to St. Mungo’s. She—“

“My wife is here?” he said blankly, although things were beginning to make horrific sense somewhere deep within his mind.

“Mr. Malfoy, I’m so—“

“Where is she?”

“Please, Mr. Malfoy. There was nothing—“

“Where is she?” he asked, his voice getting slightly louder.

The Healer took a step closer to Draco.

“Your wife Portkeyed directly into the hospital with extensive injuries. The elf arrived immediately after she did, I assume because the elf detected that your wife was here and required her presence. Your wife passed just after the house elf arrived. She Apparated away, I assume to bring you.”

“What…what happened to her?” Draco asked hollowly, feeling like he might collapse to the tile again.

“Your wife had grave internal injuries. There was nothing we could have done.”

Draco struggled for air. “Explain.”

“Trauma to both the head and internal organs.”

“I...”

“We do not know the cause of her injuries. She died within moments of arriving.” He cleared his throat. “I’m certain this comes as a shock. I am deeply sorry.”

“I felt it.”

“Mr. Malfoy?”

“I was in the parlor. I…felt it. I felt our bond break. I felt her die.”

The Healer focused on at the tile at his feet and said nothing.

Draco took a deep breath. “I want to see her,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“I must inform you that the injuries that took her life are…extensive and…obvious,” the Healer said gently.

“I want to see her,” he repeated.

“Of course.”

After leading Draco a few steps down the hall and pausing for a moment with his hand on the knob, the Healer opened the door to the private room where Hermione lay. Draco pushed past him and felt the blood drain from his face.

Blood. The thing he had once despised about her a lifetime ago—the thing that driven the insanity of the war, and the thing that would always separate them according to Pure-blood society—coloured most of the sheet that had been draped over her. The amount held him frozen, aghast.

There couldn’t have been this much blood inside her. Inside anyone.

_“You’re not making any sense. You and I can’t…you’ve forgotten what I am.” Hermione thrust her bare arm up at him, brandishing jagged scars in the shape of letters on her ivory skin. Her lips twisted in a snarl. “I’m a—“_

_Draco put his finger to her lips to stop the word she was about to use._

_“I know exactly what you are, Granger.” He stepped close enough to feel her warm breath on his neck. “You’re mine.”_

_Her eyes widened and he saw the last of her anger give way. He reached out to caress the side of her face, brushing away an errant curl. It was then that he bent to kiss his future wife for the first time._

The click of shoes across the tile wrenched him out of his reverie. Draco glanced up from the bloodstained sheet; the Healer had moved from the doorway to stand next to him.

“Since she arrived by Portkey, I assume she did not arrive from your home,” the Healer said, folding his hands behind his back while not looking at Draco.

Draco stepped closer to the bed. “No. She was traveling. Internationally.”

“Then I also assume that once she was injured, she reworked the Portkey to bring her here. It is a miracle that she was able to do so.”

“My wife is…” Draco stumbled. “My wife was a very strong witch.”

“Of course.”

“Will you contact my mother? And…and Harry Potter?”

“Certainly.” The Healer grasped Draco’s left shoulder. He flinched under the touch. “I’m so sorry.

And the Healer—whom Draco still did not know the name of—turned and left him alone with the body of his wife.

* * *

When faced with the prospect of lifting the sheet that covered Hermione, Draco hesitated. He knew every nuance and swell of his wife’s skin, every tender angle. Her body had been flawless. Perfect. Could he bring himself to look at it now?

 _Should_ he even look at her, lying there broken and bloody? Would seeing it taint the warmth of her kiss from the moment before she had Portkeyed away only three days ago? But should he turn away from it now, would he grow to regret not seeing her one final time?

_Hermione turned on her side, leaned on her elbow, and propped her head up with her hand. Her delicious body was only half covered by the white sheets. “Hey.”_

_“Hmmm…” Draco said through the blissful haze of their first bonded morning._

_“Tired?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow._

_“Not too tired…” He rolled onto his side and stared at her. Her hair was the messiest he’d ever seen it—not that he was surprised after their…debauchery last night. Merlin, this barely covered, gorgeous witch was his._ His _._

_“Come ‘ere,” he whispered as he moved toward her. She struggled towards him in the tangled mess of sheets. “I want you closer.”_

_He bent his head to press kisses up her neck and along her jawline, ending at her ear. “Mine,” he murmured around his advance._

_“Is that so, Mr. Malfoy?” she asked. He could hear her smiling through in her words._

_“Yes it is, Mrs. Malfoy.” He smirked at her. “I seem to recall you said so yesterday. And I have witnesses to prove it.”_

_She smirk-smiled back at him, her lips thinning in an amused line and curling upward on one side. It was the same look she had given him last night under the moon as she spoke the ancient words…words that, for untold ages, had been spoken to bond witch to wizard for the rest of their lives._

_Draco had been surprised at her choice to use the old ceremony—and also pleased. It had been a not-so-subtle way to remind the wizarding world that neither of them subscribed to the old Pure-blood prejudice. As with so many things, Hermione had known what needed to be done, even when he hadn’t._

_Then again, she had always seemed to know precisely what needed to be done._

_As Hermione had recited the ancient vow in unison with him the night before, he sensed the magic surround their hands; he felt the bond settling into his flesh and weaving into his soul. It was rapturous. And terrifying._

“…and with these words, I aver my spirit and thy spirit are now our one spirit; my magic and thy magic are now our one magic; my blood and thy blood are now our one blood…”

_From the corner of his eye, Draco had seen his mother flinch at the last. Most of the other older Pure-bloods had squirmed, looked away, or shifted their weight as they stood around the circle._

_So be it._

_They shared everything now. Even blood._

_And everything he had wanted was now his._

Draco pinched his eyes shut and squeezed the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. Wait. _Wait_. According to the vow he took, it was _their_ blood that had been splattered all over this cold, white room.

 _How appropriate_.

He was as dead as Hermione was.

Draco bent his head and wept.

* * *

The Ministry owl carrying the official report of the incident that took Hermione’s life arrived sometime via owl in the early morning of the next day.

His wife’s car had been hit by a truck just outside Sidney city limits.

Five Muggles—two policemen, two emergency responders and one eye witness—had been Oblivated. During an interview, they had reported that they had seen a severely injured woman reach for what appeared to be a pointed wooden stick, chant something at a pen, and then disappear.

_Merlin, what the fuck did he care about some Muggles that had to be Obliviated?_

Draco wadded up the parchment and barked an _Incindio_ at it, watching it fold in on itself as the flames reduced it to ash.

Car accident. What a fucking banal way to die.

Draco dragged a hand through his ragged hair. Sleep had barely come. He had dozed off once only to wake and reach for her—as he always did, even when she had gone to visit her parents. This time, though, their cold bed held no promise that she would ever return.

A tea he’d fixed for himself sat untouched on the side table; he stared at it and tried to focus. When had he made it? _Oh._ He huffed a laugh. Hermione’s house elf had argued with him for ten minutes over who should make it. _Master is incapable of brewing tea_ , it had said. Draco had won the argument by threatening to give it the rest of the day off.

_Wait until I tell Hermione that her stupid elf—_

He would never have a chance to tell her anything again, would he? Not even goodbye.

He crumpled into a ball and began to sob.

* * *

**Three Weeks Later**

“Have you seen Draco since the funeral?”

As delicate as Cordelia Greengrass appeared to be at first glance, her eyes were as sharp as a raptor’s.

“No, Mother.”

The elder witch took a sip of her tea and regarded her daughter from her station on the wingback chair in the mansion’s drawing room. “It’s about time, don’t you think?”

Astoria turned away to gaze out the window. “It’s only been three weeks.”

Her mother set her teacup down without a sound. “You have a unique opportunity, Astoria. You must go to him. He needs comfort. Now that a modicum of time has passed, he may be ready to accept it.”

Astoria kept still under her mother’s flint gaze.

“You still pine for him.”

It was a statement, rather than a question. Her mother knew her well.

“What does it matter?” Astoria countered, annoyance colouring her tone despite her best effort to keep it out.

Her mother’s eyebrows raised a fraction.

“Draco needs you. You could remind him there is life after the loss of a bondmate,” her mother responded levelly. _“Think_ , Astoria. Should you help him, he would be indebted to you. He will need to marry again, to produce an heir. You would be the logical choice.”

She gazed out the window. Rain trickled down the glass, falling in ribbons and distorting the scene beyond.

“I’m nothing like her.”

“I agree, you are nothing like her…with one notable exception,” her mother amended, with a tight smile. “You both loved him and would do absolutely anything for him.” She took another sip of tea. “I wonder, Astoria, if that is still true.”

Astoria bristled under her mother’s stare.

“I don’t look like her,” she offered.

“Perhaps,” her mother said as if she were bored. “But you _are_ a witch.”  


	2. Chapter 2

Toldy padded into the sitting room and placed a tray of food on the side table next to Draco with a resounding _clunk_. It stared at him pointedly, its overlarge, watery eyes unblinking. “Master Malfoy must eat.”

Draco dragged a hand down his face. His stubble had grown soft, almost curly. “Stupid elf can fuck off,” he mumbled.

“Master barely eats. Master has not left the house in nearly three weeks except to go to Mistress’s grave. Toldy will call Lady Malfoy.”

“Toldy will do no such thing or I will give Toldy clothes.”

“Master must be reasonable. Master must eat.”

“Master can do whatever the fuck he wants.”

Toldy sulked back into the kitchen, abandoning the tray. Draco ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes. How long had he been lying here, staring at nothing? He groaned, opened his eyes, and cast a _Tempus_. 4:19 p.m. _Fucking hell._

Draco stretched and allowed himself a deep, ragged breath; it threatened to deteriorate into a sob, but he was able to curb the urge to give in to another round of weeping. That was a first. He had never before been able to resist trying to fill the gaping hole in his chest with tears.

He stood. As he rose, his wedding ring slid off his finger, clinking on the marble beneath his feet and rolling a few feet away. He bent to pick it up. As Draco twisted it between his forefinger and his thumb, the light from the fireplace reflected off the metal, highlighting the words inscribed on the inside of the band.

_To Mr Malfoy from your dove_

He stared at his hand. His skin was stretched thinly over the long bones of his fingers; his knuckles jutted out at an ugly angle. Merlin, his hands looked emaciated. _Emaciated?_ Hermione always said she loved his hands. What would she have thought of them now?

Okay, maybe the fucking house elf was right.

He shoved the ring back onto his finger.

He’d been the first. Since recorded history, Malfoy wizards had eschewed wedding rings, but in a nod to his bride’s heritage and Muggle tradition, he offered to wear one. This moment was the only time his ring had been off his finger since their bonding.

Draco had given Hermione her own ring, of course; he had spent weeks scouring wizarding Britain in search of a stone that matched the color of her eyes.

_“It’s a diamond, Hermione.”_

_She looked up at him from the velvet box with a mixture of wonder and adoration, and he shifted the weight on his feet, uncomfortable with the intensity in her honey eyes. The old insecurities surfaced briefly until he smothered them by a sheer force of will._

_“I know some do not find brown to be very romantic,” he said softly. “I happen to disagree. For your ring, I wanted to find something that reminded me of your eyes. This was the closest one I found.”_

Of course, even a natural brown diamond could never match what she gifted him each time she looked at him.

It didn’t matter now. He had buried her with it, so the stone would be hers. Forever.

He cast another _Tempus._ It was 4:27 p.m. It was time to visit his wife.

* * *

After Draco had once again forbidden the house elves to touch anything of Hermione’s under threat of clothes—from her hairbrush in the bathroom to her unfinished books in the sitting room—he found his boots and Floo’d to the Manor. Once there, he hurried out the door that was closest to the gardens before his mother realized he’d come.

The leaves were beginning their descent into the rusty browns of autumn; the clear autumn sky mocked his melancholy mood while the debris underfoot crunched and rustled. It was as if the trees were shedding their leaves in sorrow as thick as his own tears.

In the days immediately following the funeral, he’d been too distraught to visit Hermione’s grave; one nameless afternoon and black night had slid into the next and before Draco knew it, it had been a week since her death. When he had regained enough cognitive thought to realize it had been ten days since he’d been to where they had laid her, he Floo’d to the Manor then walked there. He’d done it every day since.

Even now, weeks later, he was in no condition to Apparate to the cemetery without being in danger of splinching himself. Not that he would have felt it if he had.

Hell, he had already been split into pieces.

_I miss you._

It was a solid ten minute walk from the Manor to the family plot on a path that wandered through opulent gardens and rolling fields that were now long past the boisterous summer wildflowers. The moments alone on the way were, at times, welcome; at others, they were the most dreaded part of his day. Without the distraction of the house elves, memories arrived unbidden, like fragments of a long past life bubbling to the surface.

_With a shaking hand, Draco pulled the stiff sheet back, revealing Hermione’s broken face in the cold_ _fluorescent_ _light. He gasped. His wife was barely recognizable. He reached out to tuck a curl behind her ear but the dried blood had cemented it to her skin…_

To distract him from the unpleasant memories that surfaced on the way to her grave, Draco considered the things he’d tell Hermione—what points seemed important enough to share, what pieces of the mundane that she’d still enjoy.

Draco approached the plot, his hands thrust deep into his robes against the chill air. The black wrought iron gate swung wildly in the breeze. He looked down at the newly chiseled stone.

_You missed dinner again last night, Dove. Kilpey made that stew we both despise. Can you believe it? I’m thinking of sending it back to the Manor for more cooking lessons. I didn’t eat any, thank Merlin. But don’t worry like you always do. I haven’t been that hungry lately._

Even with autumn upon them, a new growth of weeds and grass had insisted on rising up from the fresh earth on top of her grave. Draco scowled. Tumbling to his knees, he scratched and tore at the tiny plants that had taken root, the cold earth pushing under his fingernails.

_Why did you have to go? It’s going to be winter soon. I’m scared. You know how I have nightmares whenever it snows. Come home. You can’t leave me by myself. You just...can’t._

But she had. This was where Hermione lived now. In the cold earth of a grave.

In the back of his mind, he was terrified that the graveyard was now his home, too.

Draco stretched himself over her as the sorrow and grief poured out of him onto the dirt that would separate him from his beloved wife forever.

* * *

Draco trudged back to the Manor as the sky fell into twilight, periodically stumbling on the path in the waning light. As he neared the entrance to the Manor from the garden, he wondered if his mother would be waiting. She wasn’t. He Floo’d home, numb, empty, and alone.

The dirt under his fingernails rankled; as soon as he reached the flat, Draco made his way to the small washroom adjoining the main bedroom. Draco clicked the door shut and sank into Hermione’s vanity stool, shedding his coat and boots.

Sequestering himself in the tiny room was becoming yet another daily ritual after Hermione’s loss. He could feel her here. Not that his wife had been a vain woman, but taming her curls took a while, and she spent the majority of her time in the cramped room precisely where Draco was now sitting.

He glanced at himself in the mirror. Merlin, he looked like shite. He hadn’t cut his hair or shaved in…how long? He didn’t even know.

_“You’re so cute in the morning before you’ve shaved.”_

_“I’m never_ cute _. Handsome. Striking. Magnetic. Never cute,” Draco said with a smirk._

_“Whatever you say, Mr. Malfoy.”_

_Hermione sniggered as she purposely bumped into him to reach for her toothbrush in the tiny washroom._

_“You know, we don’t need to live in this little flat, Dove,” he said seriously._

_“I know. But it’s cozy. And I want to be cozy with you.”_

_“You can be cozy with me in the biggest mansion on the planet.”_

_“I like it here.”_

_“And I like wherever you are,” he said, pulling her close and bending to kiss her._

“Master?”

Draco lifted his eyes to glare at the back of the closed bathroom door as if he could see through it and decide whether or not to answer the question at hand. He sighed. Toldy. It wasn’t likely to go away until he answered.

“Yeah?”

“Master has received an owl.”

Draco rose from his seat at the vanity and cracked the door. He pulled the parchment out of the elf’s outstretched hand and shut the door without a word.

He turned it over in his hand, revealing the wax Greengrass family crest sealing the parchment shut. _This ought to be good._ He punctured the seal and unrolled the parchment, revealing the perfect script of someone he hadn’t seen or heard from in years.

_Miss Astoria Greengrass kindly requests the permission to call upon Mr. Draco Malfoy on Tuesday next at 4 o’clock._

Of course, Miss Astoria Greengrass was not asking permission. She was going to be here on Tuesday whether he wanted to see her or not. Draco suspected that the house elves had conspired to produce a visitor for him.

So be it.

He sighed again.

_Astoria Greengrass is coming. I’m going to have to shave._

* * *

The next day unfolded much as the day before—Draco awoke around midday and moved to the sitting room, where he spent the afternoon in and out of consciousness and refusing to eat. He went to Hermione as the end of the day threatened, and returned even emptier than when he had left.

Draco snapped the door shut to his empty bedroom. Flooing back from the Manor left him dizzy and disoriented and he didn’t know if he was too tired to eat or too hungry to sleep. He certainly felt weak. He collapsed to the bed and curled up into a ball, shoes and coat forgotten.

The dream that took him was not an invention of his sleeping mind, but a memory of _that day_  at St. Mungo’s.

_“Why have I been summoned here, Healer?”_

_Narcissa’s crisp articulation echoed coldly down the corridor followed by several moments of silence. Draco was thankful to hear his mother’s sharp voice. He was grateful—for a moment—until he heard his mother’s next word._

_“NO.”_

_Draco could hear a man speaking in words too soft to understand._

_Then Narcissa’s clear command in response: “Not another. I will_ not _lose another.”_

_More words too faint to hear._

_“Did you not hear me, Healer? I will not lose another! No one else…NOTHING ELSE MUST BE LOST!”_

_Then, strangely, he heard the distant clatter of a clipboard; the slamming of a door down the artificially lit hall, the magically amplified voice of the first floor receptionist…and finally, the wails of his mother, her screams outclassing his own._

The sound of the door pushing open and the slight footfall of a house elf woke him. Thankful, he opened his eyes to find the large watery eyes of Kipley staring at him.

“Why are my shoes and coat on?” he mumbled.

“Master Floo’d back from the Manor and went straight into his room. Master did not want Kilpey’s help. Kilpey did not know what to do.”

The elf vanished a smear of dark brown sticky mud from the duvet under his shoes.

“My wife would know what to do.”

The elf cringed at his words. He didn’t care.

“Perhaps Master would like to rest. Perhaps Master would like to put on his night clothes.”

Draco got up looked around blankly. “Night clothes? Where are they? They’re not here. I must have lost them,” he said, opening drawers and rifling through his dresser.

“Nothing else must be lost.” he said as much to himself as to the house elf. It looked back at him curiously.

“Of course, Master.”

* * *

And then, somehow, it had become Tuesday and Astoria Greengrass had arrived. Toldy led the visitor into the sitting room, bowed, and left.

“Miss Greengrass.”

“Mr. Malfoy.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you.”

“And you.”

Knowing what was coming, he shuttered his eyes against her next question.

“How have you been?” she asked, clutching her purse a little too tightly. He suspected she was concentrating on the glamour she’d cast to cover the remains of her Dark Mark. As if he gave a fuck whether it was in plain view or not.

“As expected.”

He gave her credit for barely covering her wince.

His Pure-blood instincts took over. “Please, Miss Greengrass, make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you,” she said, settling into an armchair and smoothing her jade dress until it was perfect.

He regarded her from across the room warily. She was a pretty enough woman: striking green eyes, shoulder length dark brown hair, delicate nose, full lips. A suggestion of lipstick and perfume. There could be only one reason why she was here. Merlin’s fucking balls, how blind did she think he was?

Toldy returned, ushering in a tea service and placing it between them; after pouring tea for Draco and his guest, it moved to station itself in the far corner of the room.  

“I know it’s been a few years, but we were schoolmates, right? Please call me Astoria.”

He nodded once in acceptance. “And please call me Draco.” He took a swallow of the Earl Grey set before him. “How is Lady Greengrass? And Daphne?”

“They are both well. And Lady Malfoy? Is she still at the Manor this late in the season?” Astoria asked, sipping some of her own.

“She is. She enjoys walking the orchards with her hounds nearly every day.”

Draco attempted to hide his smirk at their careful waltz around the mention of either of their fathers. The twinge of Astoria’s eyebrow told him he hadn’t succeeded. His father had been sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban and Tommin Greengrass was dead by an Auror’s hand; the topic wasn’t precisely conversation fit for Afternoon Tea.

Silence. Draco crossed his legs and resisted pressing the crease of his trousers with his fingers. Had they run out of things to discuss so quickly? Merlin, he’d need a drink or two to get through this shite.

“You may leave us,” Draco barked, abruptly turning to the house elf in the corner. Since Hermione had been taken away from him, the elves had begun to regress back into behaviors more suited for Malfoy Manor than their flat in London—behaviors like standing in the corner awaiting orders. Hermione had changed all that. Had they forgotten their mistress so soon?

When the elf disappeared, Draco rose to cross the room and retrieve a bottle of Firewhisky from a mahogany cabinet. He dropped back to his chair.

“I haven’t had many visitors,” he said, opening the bottle and adding a generous amount to his tea.

“Perhaps people don’t know what to say,” Astoria said evenly.

“Do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

Draco raised his eyebrow in question, indicating the Firewhisky. Astoria shook her head, declining his silent offer.

“Surely your mother calls on you,” she continued.

“My mother has not been able to visit often. She is dealing with her own…situation.” He felt his lips twist into a smirk. He took a pull of the tea doused with the smoky liquor; it burned his throat.

“Of course. Understandably so.” Astoria looked noticeably chagrined at the second reference to their fathers’ mutual fate.

Draco reached for his teacup and downed another long swallow, feeling Astoria’s pointed stare.

“How can I help you, Draco? What can I do?” she said, leaning forward towards him.

Draco huffed a laugh. “There is nothing you can do, unless you can raise the dead.” He drained his cup and met Astoria’s eye. “I didn’t get to say goodbye. I always thought I’d see her again. That’s…that’s the thing. I imagine what I might have said. Or should have said. I do it all the time. All the things I never got to say…”

“I’m so sorry,” Astoria said in a soft voice.

Willing his gait steady, Draco got up and started to pace across the room. “I still talk to her now, you know. I go to the grave site at the Manor, and I talk to her. But it’s not the same.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

Draco glanced at Astoria; she looked away. He’d said too much.

He continued to pace.

After a moment, Astoria turned and reached out to a book on the side table.

“ _Don’t touch that._ ”

“Okay. Sure.” Astoria squirmed in her chair, then rose and smiled tightly at him. “Draco, I have kept you long enough. Thank you for allowing me to intrude on your generous hospitality.”

He stopped mid stride and pulled on a veneer of control. “It was no intrusion. It was a pleasure to see you.”

Astoria paused, as if she were deciding what to say. “Will you allow me visit you again?” she finally managed.

And right in that moment, he was caught. In Pure-blood society, one could not refuse a request for hospitality, even though his guest had pushed the boundary of propriety by asking the question in the first place.

“Of course,” he said, inclining his head.

Toldy appeared to usher Astoria to the door.

Draco vanished the traces of her perfume and went to retrieve his coat. Suddenly, he desperately needed to talk to his wife.

* * *

The following Tuesday found Draco in the sitting room, waiting for his visitor to arrive. The last few days had been a blur. It was as if the very cohesiveness of his life was evaporating, as if everything around him were now made of ash and vapor and in danger of never being solid again.

Cracking his knuckles again, he sighed. Why was Astoria doing this? Well, in truth, he knew. But didn’t she realize that no one would ever be able to replace Hermione?

Draco picked up his teacup, walked to the window, and took a swallow of what was mostly Firewhisky. He’d insisted that the house elf serve him tea before his guest arrived, even though it was improper to do so. He’d be damned if he was going to sit through another Afternoon Tea without being too drunk to see the pity in her eyes. And he needed a head start on it before she got there.

* * *

Astoria was dismayed at how quickly the conversation had devolved from pleasantries into a discussion of Draco’s dead wife. She couldn’t blame him for straying off topic, though. The overwhelming odor of Firewhisky suggested Draco must have started on his self-medication long before she’d arrived.

“What if…what if I’m asleep and this is a nightmare? What if I heard wrong and she’s not really gone? What if I imagined all of this?” As she watched him, he ran his fingers over and over his nearly-faded Dark Mark as if he were trying to rub it out of existence; he didn’t seem to realize he was doing it.

It was the desperation in Draco’s voice that broke her, though. She tried to swallow so she could form an answer, but her throat was too dry.

“Is she really gone?” he said, turning his hollow eyes on her, the grey begging for truth.

Astoria found her voice. “She is really gone.”

“But I never got to say goodbye. If I had gotten to say goodbye…”

She cringed.

Draco turned his head away to stare at the far wall and lost all semblance of control.

In that moment, her mother’s words came to her unbidden: _"He needs comfort. Now that a modicum of time has passed, he may be ready to accept it."_

Astoria stood. _He needs Calming Draught, for starters._ With a glance at Draco--who was still facing away from her--she wandered out of the sitting room. _Where would the master bathroom be? Maybe through the bedroom…_

“May I help you Miss?”

Astoria jumped, nearly knocking over a stack of books on a nearby dresser: the bloody house elf had appeared out of nowhere. Composing herself, she smiled down at it condescendingly. No house elf was going to interfere with her helping Draco Malfoy. _She_ was going to be the one to do it, she was going to rescue him from the blackness and desperation, not some meddling servant.

“I am retrieving some Calming Draught for Master Malfoy,” Astoria said as authoritatively as she could. She pushed past the creature and strode into the master bath. “It’s just in here,” she blustered, gambling that he had some and kept it in the cabinet above the sink, where most did. All the war survivors kept a supply. Draco couldn’t be an exception.

She snapped opened the cabinet and saw the bottle of Calming Draught immediately, exactly where she’d guessed Draco stored it; she plucked it out and swung back on the elf, brandishing the bottle like a prize. “See?”

“Yes, Miss.”

The house elf bowed its head and scurried away.

Astoria made her way back to the sitting room, removed the stopper, and poured half the contents of the bottle in Draco’s empty teacup. She touched him gently on the shoulder and he flinched as he turned towards her, shaking.

“Here. Take this.”

“What is it?”

“Drink it. You’ll feel better.”

He looked at her with doubt, his eyes saying _nothing will ever make me feel better_ but he took it and drank it in a single swallow.

“I’ll be right back,” she said gently. The potion would work within a minute or two; returning the bottle would give Draco time to compose himself and vanish the traces of his grief.

Back in his bathroom, she opened the cabinet to replace it. _I should tell the elf to replace what was used tonight in case he needs more soon. Merlin, I wish he would stop saying that he just wishes he could say goodbye._  

As she started to close the cabinet door, she saw a woman’s hairbrush lying on the counter.

Astoria stopped, frozen.

_Don’t the house elves keep things clean around here? Why would—_

Her mother’s voice returned, clear and strong: _"Perhaps," her mother said as if she were bored. "But you_ are _a witch."_

And on impulse, with a furtive glance at the doorway, she shrunk the hairbrush and placed it in her pocket.


	3. Chapter 3

****Brass bells hanging from the front door of the newly re-opened _Apothecarium of Horace E. F. Slughorn_ announced Astoria’s arrival to the tiny store. She’d heard from her mother that her former professor had set up shop in Diagon Alley after retiring from Hogwarts, and she needed some supplies, some … _unorthodox_ ingredients for what she planned to do.  

Astoria readjusted the scarf peeking out from her overcoat. She knew the wizard well enough to guess that he would be tempted by her offer. Whether or not he would agree to provide her with what she needed was an entirely different matter.

“Why, Miss Greengrass, what a pleasure to see you.” The wizard waddled to the front of the store, presumably from the storeroom in the back. He gifted her an affected smile and struggled to stuff his hands in the front pockets of his robes that were pulled tightly across his girth.  

“A pleasure to see you as well, Master Slughorn,” Astoria replied, her smile as artificial as the one aimed in her direction.

“How is your mother? And Fergus Selwyn?”

“Both are very well, thank you. How’s the Apothecary business? Do you miss Hogwarts?”

“Not at all, not at all. Barnabas Cuffe from the Prophet calls on me for lunch every Wednesday down at the Three Broomsticks, and every other Thursday, Giles Bulstrode and I take a pint at the Leaky Cauldron.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Astoria strolled around the shop, purposely not meeting his eye. She picked up a jar of Belladonna and pretended to examine it by turning the glass over in her hands. “Just the other day, I had lunch at the Three Broomsticks myself… _with Duncan Burke._ Inventor of the Antidote to Veritaserum, you know. Brilliant man. I wonder if you’ve ever met him. We happen to be dear friends. In fact, he gave me this scarf for my birthday.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of his invention. But I’ve never had the pleasure of being introduced despite my desire to meet him. Purely for research, you know. I’d like to ask him some questions on his unique brewing process. Inquiring minds, and all that.”

She glanced at him. Slughorn shifted his massive weight and stared at her pointedly. She looked away, as if all of the ancient, shelved ingredients in the shop held more interest than their conversation.

“I could introduce you, if you’d like,” she said lightly.

“Why, that would be splendid,” he replied as if it were the most surprising idea that had ever been suggested to him. She smiled.

“So how may I help you today, Miss Greengrass?”

“I’m wondering if you might know of a Potions Master that might supply me with some ingredients,” she said wandering deeper into the cluttered shop and making sure she did not look in his direction. “A bit of discretion is required.”

“I see. I see.”

She strolled back to return the Belladonna to the shelf with the jars of other dried plants and looked to her former professor; Slughorn was patting his vast stomach behind the counter.

“Perhaps something can be arranged,” he said.

Astoria walked over to him, smiled again, and handed him a folded list.

Slughorn squinted at the parchment and yanked his reading glasses out of a pocket of his robes. “Lacewing flies, leeches, powdered bicorn horn, knotgrass…” he mumbled to himself. He planted his generous chin in his puffed out chest, raised his eyebrows, and met her eye challengingly. “Miss Greengrass?”

“A bit of discretion, Master Slughorn,” she said, playing with the silk scarf between her fingers.

He continued to stare at her for a moment. His gaze eventually moved to her fingers as they toyed with the fabric draped around her neck, and he seemed to come to a decision. “Yes. Yes, of course,” he said, turning away and walking slowly to the storeroom in the back. “I’ll have them ready for you to pick up in an hour,” he called.

“Thank you, Master Slughorn.” Astoria pulled the shop’s door shut behind her and left, brass bells tinkling in her wake.

* * *

 

Draco weaved down the path to the cemetery, stopping with a lurch when he reached Hermione’s grave. _Perhaps a little less Firewhisky in the tea next time_. The wind had picked up a faraway tinkle of a wind chime far off in the distance. He looked up. Clouds were blowing in. The breeze began to amuse itself with his hair and the hem of his trench coat.

_I’m here, Dove. And I don’t know what to do._

He slumped down onto the cold earth, pleased that no new seedlings had sprouted there since he had uprooted them. _I don’t know what to do and I don’t even know what to say anymore._ He thought back to another time when he didn’t know what to say, hoping the memory would distract him from the hard ground and chilly wind, even for a moment.

 

_The restaurant was cozy and low-lit, with obsequious waitstaff, hushed conversation, and private tables. Draco had chosen it carefully, thinking they would be able to enjoy a more relaxing time if they were far removed from Diagon Alley and deep into Muggle London. It seemed his efforts hadn’t helped: Hermione was fidgeting with the napkin in her lap and avoiding his eye._

_“You’re acting like you don’t even know me, Granger. Like we’re strangers or something.”_

_“I’m not sure any of this is actually happening. I mean, you and me, we’re_ on a date _.”_

_Draco let himself smile slowly. “Apparently.”_

_“Apparently,” she echoed. She seemed too nervous to return his smile._

_A moment passed when neither of them said anything._

_“Perhaps it would be easier if we start over.” He held out his hand for her to shake. “I’m Draco Malfoy.”_

_She did smile at that. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Malfoy. I’m Hermione Granger,” she said, taking his hand firmly in his own._

_“A pleasure to meet you as well, Miss Granger,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “ Must we be so formal?”_

_“Well, Mr. Malfoy, perhaps we should retain the formalities until we get to know one another better.”_

_“I suspect that won’t take long,” he said smugly. He reached for her hand again, this time interlacing his fingers with her_ s. _“I like it, though,” he said, allowing his smug look to morph into a smirk._

_“What’s that?”_

_“’Mr. Malfoy’. It sounds so…” He searched for the right word but didn’t find one. “I don’t know. I love the way you say it.”_

_Hermione laughed and he felt his stomach do a little flip. “You do? Okay,_ Mr. Malfoy _,” she said with a smile beginning on her lips, “You know, I think I like it, too.”_

_“What should we talk about this evening?”_

_And, both because he loved simply hearing her voice and because he had nothing he necessarily wanted to express, he said, “Anything you like, Miss Granger. I’m here to listen.”_

 

Sitting over her grave, his heart ached: he still had nothing to say. Perhaps he didn’t need less Firewhisky in his tea. Perhaps he needed more. A lot more. Draco gathered himself up from the ground and made his way back from the gravesite so he could get just that.

* * *

 

Astoria readjusted her hood and gathered her dark grey robes more snugly around her, continuing briskly down the dimly lit street. It wasn’t as though it was colder here in Knockturn Alley than a few scant blocks away. It just felt that way.

A couple slid by; the curly brunette hair of the witch stuck out from the hood she wore and the blonde wizard at her side had his hand in hers as they hurried along in the chilly wind. Astoria did a double take and continued on her mission.

Her destination was just beyond _The Spiny Serpent. Shyverwretch's Venoms and Poisons_ was nestled between _Moribund’s_ and another shop she couldn’t identify. She kept her gaze on the cobblestones ahead of her. All the better. She had no desire to know what the dark shop offered its shifty customers.

Astoria reached the ancient door and heaved it open. Behind the counter, a grubby wizard glanced up from a parchment and sneered at her, surveying her slowly from boots to hair, spending a disturbing span of time on the open top button of her blouse. He didn’t speak.

“I have an appointment to see Mr. Travers,” she said, looking him straight in the eye.

“Do you, now?”

“Here is his owl.” She thrust the proof over the counter into his oily hand.

He scowled at her. “Wait here.”

After a moment, the wizard she could only assume was Travers appeared from deep within the back of the shop.

“Did you get it?” she said without preamble.

“It’s not hard to procure Muggle street drugs if one knows where to look,” he said, leering at her with greying teeth.

“Or who to ask,” she supplied, unwilling to be cowed by his tactics. Just because she didn’t want to buy the shite herself didn’t mean she needed this particular arse of a wizard to help her. There were other options. There had always been other options. This had just been the easiest.

“Indeed,” he replied, seemingly undisturbed by her insinuation that she actually _knew_ who to ask. He pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket. “You need only one dose? You certain? Price goes up after this, _miss_. First purchase is a bargain. I’d take advantage of it if you can.”

“Fine. I’ll take three.”

“Three, then.”

With dirty fingers, he counted out three pills and laid them on the glass. “Four galleons,” he said.

Astoria retrieved the coins from her pocket and laid them on the counter. Squirreling the tablets away in her robes, she strode out of shop, and twisted home the moment her boots hit the cobblestone.

* * *

 

Back at her family’s estate, Astoria untied the small bundle she’d purchased from the apothecary. She sighed. Could she truly do this? Well, technically _, yes,_ she could: she hadn’t been shite at Potions, thank-you-very-much--so that was not really the issue.

What _was_ the issue then? Well, what if her plan sent Draco over the edge? What if, instead of fixing things, her plan made things decidedly worse? She’d never tried anything like this before. While her Potions skills weren’t shite, her acting skills just might be.

Astoria carefully unwrapped each ingredient and set them across the counter. The action seemed to calm her doubt, even as the sickly odor of leeches reminded her of brewing Shrinking Solution her Third Year.

 

_She and Scarlett were on their way to the Slytherin common room after a long morning enduring Trelawney’s babblings; their path led them past Professor Snape’s Potions classroom just as the Fifth Year class was being dismissed. Astoria could hear Snape reprimanding the Longbottom moron, sniping at him in a cold, clipped tone—presumably about his failures during the day’s class—as the rest of the students fled into the hallway. Astoria and Scarlett were caught in the surge of people as the Potions students scrambled to get out of earshot of Snape’s lecture._

_Draco stepped out the open door, his gaze focused down the corridor, clearly falling on three Fifth Years: the school celebrity, Granger, and The Weasel. Granger was laughing at something The Weasel had said. Draco was frozen in place, as if he was physically unable to turn away._

_“He’s staring at her again,” Astoria said in hushed tones after assessing Draco with a critical eye._

_Scarlett followed her stare. “Because he hates the Gryffindork swot, just like everybody else does,” she said, glancing back at him._

_“I don’t think that’s it.”_

_The trio rounded a corner to ascend the stairs, disappearing from view._

_Astoria could feel the eye roll that her friend had suppressed. “Sure it is. Listen, Astoria, lets—“_

_“Hey, Draco,” Astoria said, raising her voice slightly over the throng._

_“Hmmmm…?” He swiveled back to look at her, something unreadable in his grey eyes._

_“How was Potions? Snape in a decent mood today?”_

_“Eh…fine. Potions was fine.”_

_The odor of the potion the class had been brewing wafted into the hall as Longbottom finally scurried away. Astoria thought she detected leeches—which reminded her that she needed to finish an extra credit assignment for Snape._

_Astoria swallowed, and found her throat was dry. “I was wondering if I could ask you a favor, Draco.”_

_“Eh…sure.”_

_“This afternoon, I’m supposed to collect and prepare the ingredients for a modified Shrinking Solution that I’m brewing for Snape. I was wondering if you’d help me with that—maybe it would also help you review for O.W.L.s?”_

_“Eh…sure,” he repeated._

 

Astoria unwrapped the last of the ingredients—a bottle of leeches. She smiled as she remembered Scarlett stilling her face as Draco considered the request back in Third Year. If anything, Astoria should have been tutoring Draco on potion ingredients, not the other way around.

As she turned it over in her hands, she wondered what Draco would think of the ingredients she had spread before her now.

* * *

 

****Draco shed his coat and gloves, tossing them carelessly across a chair. He collapsed nearby, laid his head back on the cushions, and shut his eyes. Footsteps padding across the Persian rug alerted him that his respite was about to be interrupted.

“Master Malfoy, what may Bolpy bring you? Bolpy will bring anything you need, Master Malfoy.”

“Tea,” Draco said, sighing. He felt the elf shuffle by and hazarded a glance to see if the elf had completely disappeared down the hall. Although Hermione’s personal elf had done nothing wrong save being a constant reminder of his loss, Draco hadn’t met Bolpy’s eye since the day the elf had side-alonged him to St Mungo’s—and he had no intention of ever doing so again.

The last time he had met Bolpy’s eye, Hermione had sent it with a message.

 

_Bolpy appeared in the sitting room and bowed ridiculously low. “Lady Malfoy requests your presence, Master Malfoy.”_

_So now she was using her house elf to summon him? He huffed in frustration, but got up from the couch anyway and strode to the master bedroom._

_“You wanted to see me?”_

_“I don’t want to leave when you’re angry.”_

_“Then don’t go.” He knew that since she had told him that she was leaving, there’d been a slight stiffness to his squared shoulders, the slimmest hue of frustration coloring his words. But now he was admitting it._

_A tightening around her mouth and the suggestion of a squint around her eyes had been her entire response. “Please, Draco. Give me this.”_

_He’d known she’d needed his support but he couldn’t find it in his heart to give it. “You don’t need to go._ I _need you_ here _.” He was selfish with her time, and they both knew it. Usually she didn’t mind. But_ selfishness _didn’t begin to describe the desperate, clawing panic in his chest whenever she left._

_His wife didn’t turn away from her packing. “I told you. I won’t be gone long. I’ll see you on Thursday.”_

_“Okay,” he finally responded. He’d been stingy with his affection since she had told him she was planning on going. She certainly wasn’t going to get any now._

_“Okay,” his wife echoed._

_Draco stomped out of their bedroom without a backwards glance. What was wrong with her? Why did she feel the need to share her time with people that don’t even recognize her? What was the purpose?_

_He went back to sulking, this time cloistering himself in the kitchen._

_After a few minutes, the door to the sitting room opened. The bulbous eyes of Hermione’s house elf trained on him._

_“Master Malfoy, Lady Malfoy is leaving now. Does Master Malfoy wish to say goodbye?” The pleading that hadn’t come through in its voice but it had shown in its stare._

_Hermione was upset. And Draco knew it. But he was too simply annoyed to care. “I do not.”_

_"Very well, Master Malfoy.” The elf turned and left without further comment. Draco got up to pour himself a Firewhisky._

_And she’d Floo’d away, out of his life forever._

 

Merlin, if only he could change time itself.

With those images replaying in his mind, he let himself drift off into oblivion.

* * *

 

****Astoria elbowed her way past the house elf, ignoring the pleasantries spewing from its mouth.

“Draco?” she called into the flat. There was something of a low groan in reply coming from the main sitting room. She followed the sound.

He was laying on the couch. Gods, he was a mess: disheveled blonde hair, rumpled and stained white button down, bloodshot eyes. He raised his head and apparently tried to focus. There was a large red mark on his face where it had been pressed against the arm of the leather sofa. He didn’t look like he understood what was happening around him.

“Draco, it’s Astoria. I was supposed to call on you today.”

Draco tried to right himself and mumbled something she couldn’t quite make out; it could have been a description of Hermione wearing his favorite shirt. He could have been commenting that his head fucking hurt. She wasn’t sure.

“Would you like some dinner?” Astoria asked, settling down next to him and trying to guide the conversation onto safer ground. “It looks like the house elves laid out a tray for you.”

“Fucking house elves can’t cook an edible meal for shite,” he said without emotion, sliding his hand up and down his face tiredly.

“Perhaps I can fix you something, if your elves allow it.”

Draco huffed a laugh. “If the servants allow it.”

“Look, I know you’re hurting, but you can’t let yourself drink like this,” she said picking up a mostly empty bottle of Firewhisky off the coffee table. “You’re going to wind up killing yourself.”

“Now, there’s an idea.”

“Draco, that’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

“You can’t. Narcissa needs you.”

“My mother doesn’t need anyone, least of all me.”

“Hermione wouldn’t want you to,” she said as gently as she could. Apparently, he had no answer for that. Astoria sighed. “How about something to eat?”

“Not hungry.”

“Tell you what. How about if I arrange for the elves at Greengrass Manor to mentor yours in meal preparation? They might be able to manage an edible meal with a sight more training.”

“Whatever you like,” he said and laid back down and flipped on his other side so his back was towards her. She laid her hand on his shoulder and after a moment, got up and walked quietly out of the flat since there was really no use in staying any longer.

* * *

“Astoria?”

Astoria looked up from the copy of _Moste Potente Potions_ in her lap. “Yes, Mother?”

“How was Draco today?” Her mother poured herself a generous drink and sank into an overstuffed chair opposite her. Astoria shut the book.

“Confused. Desperate. Unable to function. And lost, to the point of being pitiful.”

“Not surprising for a wizard who has lost his bondmate. Still, it’s been some weeks. Far too long for him to seem so…”

“Incredibly sad?” Astoria supplied.

“Yes, perhaps. Sad.”

Astoria paused. She’d need her mother for the next part of her plan. “I’m trying to arrange for an evening at the flat without his house elves interrupting us. Or interfering,” she said levelly.  

“Ah,” her mother said with a slight raise of an eyebrow. She took a sip of her drink. “The Muggle-born was far too indulgent—far too lenient with them—as I understand from Narcissa. Even referred the creatures as _he_ and _she_.” Cordelia gave a delicate shudder. “Disgusting, truly.”

“Draco mentioned they need more training in the kitchen. I thought maybe…I’d give them what he says they need.”

“Of course, my dear. He may send them here for an evening. I will instruct Balry to train them on the finer points of meal preparation, to give you the time you need for…whatever it is that you’re up to, Daughter,” she said with a twinkle in her eye and another sip from her glass.

Astoria allowed herself a smile. Even though she didn’t always agree with her mother, but she could always count on her to think like a Slytherin.

 

**Author's Note:**

> All things Harry Potter belong to J. K. Rowling, not me.


End file.
